Inside the marble counter kitchen

my stomach rumbles and I smell chicken;

the white stove dial points at two.

I think of my next poem’s structure,

imagery, and a theme inside a narrative.

Hearing angry male-voices coming from upstairs,

I go up to reduce the volume and see how she is.

She watches Spiderman swing with a web;

two, almost all blank pages, lie on the carpet beside her.

I smell baby powder as I lean to pick up the pages.

She turns her head and says, “this is for you, see?”

The first page has numbers written in blue, 1795,                                                            

the second page has numbers written in red, 1821.

“Do you want to play with me?” She asks.

I sit down on the carpet. “What do you want to play?”

“Let’s draw!” She pushes a lunch box,

opens it and I see many crayons inside.

“Here is yours and I will use this one.” She says.

We draw stick-people and trees.